Vehementer
by tobestardust
Summary: She nods at him, and he raises his hand a tad, then turns to walk out. A quick glance over his shoulder tells him that she is staring at him as he leaves, and it brings an almost smug smile to his face. / Draco and Astoria


**Written for the Latin Challenge and Taylor Swift Appreciation Challenge. Much thanks to my fantastic beta, FandaticForeverAndAlways. **

Vehementer

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The days are cold, so very cold, and Draco can feel the coolness of the stone wall behind his back. He is staring at the fire across from him blankly, and the familiar crackling is soothing, if he could find it in him to move from the ground he would sit near the flames that lick the sides of the fireplace, but he has never felt more dejected or discouraged.

Everything is falling apart, and he can feel the tempest of regret and sorrow and desperation, that dominates his every waking moment and his every dream. Draco decides that he hates his father. He was, after all, the one who started this. He never wanted to work for the Dark Lord. And now, he is supposed to be killing the only hope this school has left.

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He feels like somebody is watching him. Malfoy looks around, a quick left, then right, but he sees nobody. The whole school would be at the pitch anyways.

He shakes it off, and opens the door, the gilded handle smooth under his pale hand. A tiny girl, with brown hair running to her waist and green eyes, looks on, and blinks in surprise when the door disappears after him. Astoria Greengrass just wants to know what he was doing, but suddenly, she's afraid that Draco is doing something he shouldn't, and if the rumors she heard Daphne gossiping over are true, they won't be good things.

Astoria decides to keep an eye on him, because Draco isn't all bad, at least she doesn't think he is.

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A year later, two months after the start of the new school year, everything was turned upside down. Dumbledore was dead, and Death Eaters ran the school. It was his fault. It was Draco's fault, and the whole school new it.

No, that was a lie, but the tiny little Fifth year, Astoria Greengrass looked at him with a kind of sadness and anger broke his heart. She was a feisty one, the younger Greengrass, and he liked to think that that look of hers embodied the Latin word, _vehmenter,_ perfectly. There was a type of violet, swirling anger in them, never pushed away, but in full view for Draco to see. He had never seen anybody look at him like that, like there was a tempest raging in her eyes, because she knew, he knew she knew.

It made him feel the need to beg for her forgiveness, for everybody's forgiveness.

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The war ends a year later, when so many die, and Harry Potter becomes the savior of the Wizarding world. Draco Malfoy is pardoned, and while he is glad he isn't in jail, the rest of the world isn't.

Money gets you nowhere in this new society. Draco found out the hard way, after being denied service at the cafés and shops he used to frequent, when he and his mother would sniff around haughtily and laugh at the store attendants together. Now, the attendants shoot him dirty looks and talk behind their hands at him.

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It is a Thursday morning when Draco sees Astoria Greengrass for the first time, two years later, at the tail end of the recovery efforts. He reasons that she must have just finished Seventh Year, and she looks more grown up now, strutting through the door of the Muggle café, (It was the few places where nobody knew who he was, what his family used to stand for.) her hair cut, feathering just below her collar bone.

Through the smell of black coffee and the yell of waiters, she captures his attention immediately, the white leather jacket and subtle makeup making her look more striking than he can remember her sister ever looking. Daphne was always known as the looker, but Draco still wondered how he never noticed her sister before.

He does not know why she is in Muggle London, because the Greengrasses were treated like they acted in the war, the were not honored or praised, nor shunned like Draco was. Draco also doesn't know why he raises a hand half-heartedly, nor does he know why she turns her head and smiles at him, then goes to sit across from him.

"Hello, Draco," she says, a smile ghosting her lips, her voice deeper than it was, warm and rich and beautiful.

"Hello, Astoria," Draco manages after a moment, clearing his throat beforehand, and looking away, almost flustered.

Talking to her is easy, and though the words never stop, Draco can still feel the burn of her stare, that tells him that, like the rest of the world, she has not forgiven him. He asks him how Daphne is, and she says, stiffly, that they are not speaking now, and for a second, her eyes go sad, and Draco places a hesitant, pale hand on hers. Astoria stares at it for a second, blinks, and then stands up, ruffled, and leaves without finishing her coffee. Her excuse is vague and hurried, and false, even he could tell.

As she walks out, he stares after her, and later, he will swear that the red shade of his face was from the summer heat. (It was cloudy that day; he had a long coat over his chair, and a scarf on the table.)

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It is a month later when he sees her browsing the racks in the new shop on the edge of Diagon Alley, in sensible shoes, a shimmery shopping bag in one hand. Draco pretends not to see her, but as he turns his head to look at her from the doorway, he cannot help locking eyes with her.

She nods at him, and he raises his hand a tad, then turns to walk out. A quick glance over his shoulder tells him that she is staring at him as he leaves, and it brings an almost smug smile to his face.

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Somewhere along the way, they start shopping together, running their hands along the shelves, him carrying her bags, her shooting dirty looks at people who stare at him for too long. His mother loves her, and he thinks he loves her just a little bit more.

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"Do you love Mum?"

"Of course I do, Scorpius."


End file.
